Those descended from the royal line of Nerthus are gods among my people. I never wanted to be a goddess, but that choice was not mine to make. By order of our Queen, I was sent to the remote plains of Northern Vanaheim with a single servant – to be the local goddess among common folk who had not seen me grow up.

My temple was a large hollow mound, with standing stones all around. Within it I reclined on my couch, sipping smoke from the long stem of a white clay pipe, and awaited my supplicants. A dim orange light infused my hall from the wind-eyes[1] all around; holes covered with thin vellum leather, stretched and oiled.

Beaten gold coins hung as jingles from my breast-band and belt. Below those, a blue string-skirt hid what little modesty I had left.

My dark-haired handmaiden led the couple in, all of them wearing only breechcloths[2]. The pair clutched each other, nervous as they peered through the misty hall. He was a bare-cheeked lad and she a young woman, recently married no doubt. They showed identical braids of light-brown hair down the middle of their backs, as they approached the tripod brazier on the left side of the room.

“An offering,” he said, taking herbs from the bowl beside the burning coals. “To please the goddess we honor, that she may bring us fullness.” The fumes rose as he cast them, with tentacles of smoke spreading their heady scent through the room. He inhaled and stepped back.

The young bride spoke next. “Mugwort, Motherwort, Angelica, may your blessings be with us now.”

She too inhaled the rising smoke, masking the scent of musk and sweat that hung in the air.

“Approach, if you wish to be with child, and seek my blessing,” I said with chin held high. Pulling from my pipe, I watched with amusement as they stumbled hand in hand over the many floor pillows. Heads bowed, they came to stand a few feet away from me as I exhaled.

I stood with the sound of rattling coins, my elven maidservant rushing to take the pipe and lay it in the bronze bowl on the floor.

In my waiting hand, she placed a bowl of sweet brew.

“I thirst,” I said before taking a sip. “Young bride, do you not thirst as well?”

“I do, goddess,” she answered in a shaky voice.

“Then step forward and drink of my blessing bowl, that you may become a mother.” From my hands she took it, and brought it to her lips for a sip.

“More,” I urged, “drink it down if you would have your wish.”

She did, her cheeks turning rosy as the brew started to take effect.

Good, I thought.

“The man,” I said with a brushing motion of dismissal, “may wait near the doorway while I call the magic to her belly.” My attendant took him by the arm, and had him sit on the floor. He protested the blindfold.

“What happens here is for the eyes of women only” I said, and then grinned. “Should you peek… many ills may befall your manhood before it can bring about a birth.”

Few dared a glance after such dire warning. It never ceased to amuse me how the fools believed and feared it.

I tossed aside the empty bowl from her hand, letting it hide among the pillows, and looked into her eyes.

Pupils dilated. Good.

“Blessed be your head, that has led you to wisdom”, I said, kissing her forehead, and then lower, “Blessed be your lips, that taste the nectar of love.” She gasped, bringing a finger to her now tingling lips. “Blessed be your breasts,” I said before sucking each nipple to hardness, “that nourish all life. Blessed be your belly, womb of all creation.” I kissed her there, before kneeling at her groin. Pulling on the string, I lay my mouth upon her folds as the loincloth fell away. “Blessed be your cave, from which the ancestors are reborn.”

She moaned as I continued kissing and licking between her legs, imparting the blessing with my saliva. Soon she was writhing on the ground among cushions, biting her own hand to avoid crying out. Truly adorable. But she could not hold back a scream each time she came.

Her eyes were glazed over when I pulled her up, head in my bosom, kneeling between her legs.

“Now, my pretty, it is your turn to taste the nectar of love. Do not stop until I scream, understood?” She nodded. “Good,” I said as I lay down.

===

I stretched while my maidservant led the couple out, watching as she hung a bronze vat of water over the brazier from the ceiling hook. I sat up amid the cushions once she returned.

“Do you not think,” I said with irritation, “that you should warm the water while I’m doing the rite? I hate having to wait all sticky like this.”

“Mistress,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “I do not think it appropriate to use the offering brazier to warm water during the rite.”

“I don’t keep you around for your brilliant ideas, elf. Starting tomorrow, I want you to start the water after the woman drinks. It’s not like either of them will notice once the man is blind and the woman drugged.”

“Certainly not!” I stood. “I told you before, I don’t want anyone seeing a man leaving the temple and getting the wrong idea. Nor do I want to see you that way ever again.”

“But Mistress, I remain one underneath the illusion,” she protested, gesturing at her ample breasts.

“Well,” I smirked, “What good is having a Dark Alf slave if I can’t make them look however I want? That’s the one nice thing about you people.”

“Having one of us for a slave,” she reminded me, “is a mark of high status in Vanaheim.”

“I didn’t want you here,” I spat. “I asked Father for a woman servant, begged him to change his mind, but I am stuck with you.” Imitating my father, I recited: “Fertility shrines must have a man and a woman.”

She nodded.

“Well perhaps they do,” I continued, “but you will look like a woman for as long as you serve me, is that clear?”

“Yes Mistress, very clear,” she said, and I saw her jaw clenching as she no doubt held back some cutting words.

On my way to the brazier, I picked up a kerchief and started cleansing myself.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” I said over my shoulder, “At least in Vanaheim you can buy back your freedom. Low chance of that as a third son in Svartalfheim.”

“It is true,” she said, “that sons are of lesser value and often sold in my homeland. However, I was hoping that in your more enlightened lands…”

“Yes well, I don’t want to be here myself. I am stuck, you are stuck, life is hard for everyone.” With a private smile I continued, “Though it’s been better since you showed me the right herbs to make women agreeable.”

“It is a family specialty,” she nodded. “I am… pleased that Mistress is pleased,” she said carefully.

I went to the trunk for some clothing to wear outside. My work was done for the day.

“Though,” she continued, “was it not more expedient before?”

“Certainly,” I sighed, “All I have to do is touch their bellies. But Nerthus demands a fertility rite, said the people expect it, and reprimanded me. If I have to do three rites a day without the ability to ask for payment, they may as well be ones I enjoy. Touching bellies all day long like a miller of babies? No thank you. If they want my blessing, they can bloody well make it worth my while.”

She shrugged. “I see nothing wrong with your reasoning, Mistress.”

Once dressed, I turned to face my surly maidservant.

“I am going to the hot springs. Make sure to clean everything up before my return tonight. Go entertain yourself in town if you wish after that… but do it as a woman,” I added with an evil grin.

“Yes Mistress, thank you Mistress,” she answered with a hint of a growl. “And you, enjoy your…” she shook her head, “I do not understand why you seek out more sex.”

“That was work,” I said with a dismissive wave before making my way to the wooden door. “On my own time, I have the luxury of choosing my lovers.”

Being a fertility goddess is hard work, I thought, looking forward to the steam of the hot spring washing over my body, but there are a few benefits. Let Frey bugger the married men, I mused with a grin, and I shall handle the women.

[1] Wind-eyes were the original windows, prior to glass. The modern word derives from the Old Norse ‘vindauga’, from ‘vindr – wind’ and ‘auga – eye’. The Swedish vindöga still refers to a hole in the hut of a roof. Oiled paper and cloth were also used to close the wind-eyes and allow some light into otherwise dark dwellings. Vellum is a paper made of stretched calfskin.

[2] Loincloth, with a panel at the front and back, held together by string.

Indeed, that is inspired by the Five Fold Kiss. Fulla’s a fertility goddess, and Wicca is basically a fertility religion centered around sexual metaphors of the Lord and Lady… which is what Frey and Freya’s names mean. Sometimes the sex of the Great Rite is real and not a metaphor, though that’s not really as common as it used to be.

As long as we’re talking about sordid sex lives, Aidan Kelly (in Crafting The Art of Magic) makes a strong case for Gerald Gardner creating Wicca partly as a way to satisfy his sexual needs. Not entirely of course, he was a mystic and great occultist to be sure. But if you’re going to make up a religion, why not make it the way you like? That book and Hutton’s Triumph of the Moon pretty much trace everything in the Book of Shadows to borrowed sources like the Golden Dawn, Crowley, and Margaret Murray, or texts made up by Gardner himself. Personally I applaud the man, he started something wonderful which has bloomed into many other forms of Paganism.

But specifically, Gardner apparently got off on gently flogging young women, being tied and flogged himself. Back in the day, we’d call him a dirty old man. Today, we’d more respectfully call him a kinky elder. Some of the Sabbats have a note to “do the Great Rite, if possible”. Aging men often have erectile issues, he couldn’t always get it up. However, the Great Rite was always to be done after a certain amount of flogging was prescribed with the ritual scourge… and it being his fetish, he was then able to perform. Traditional Wicca is practiced skyclad (nude). Again, his preference in addition to the symbolic sexual liberation. Today people usually do it clothed.

All this to say, Fulla made a ritual that satisfies her needs. Just like our venerable Pagan elder Gerald Gardner, whom I respect and admire for his courage and creativity. This is my tip of the hat to the old man, from one kinky Pagan to another. 🙂